“Yep. Gotta go.” I face away from him to put my shoes on, and then I search for my purse. Where would I have put that thing when I came home from the party last-night-slash-a-year-ago? “You have a key to lock up, right?” And then I stumble to a stop. We’d made kind of a big deal about exchanging keys to each other’s places, going out to dinner, and toasting with cocktails. And I’d ugly cried when, a couple of years later, he gave my key back. “I mean, of course you have a key.”
He looks at me sideways. “Don’t worry, I’ll lock up. Have a good day at work.”
Am I supposed to kiss him now? Is this how we said an ordinary goodbye on an ordinary day? It’s funny the things you forget. I hesitate before I finally settle on leaning over to give him a peck on the cheek. “You have a good day, too,” I say.
“Hey.” He takes my hand before I can step away from the bed. “Are you okay? You seem a little out of it.”
In this moment, my brain is so fried you could serve it with toast and a side of potatoes. But I can’t tell him any of that. “Of course! I’m fine. Just tired. It was—uh—a long night.” About a year long, to be exact. I try to tug my hand away, but Alex holds on.
“Let’s get dinner tonight. I’ll meet you after work?”
I gaze across the rumpled duvet. The styling product Alex uses to tame his wavy blond hair rubbed off while he slept, and now his cowlick is sticking up in the back. Or maybe he isn’t using that hair gel yet. In this time line, he’s still a brand-new graduate of Columbia’s MBA program, and he only started the investment banker job a few months ago. It’s disorienting to catch a glimpse of him looking like the Alex I met three years ago. By the time we broke up, halfway into my Very Bad Year, he was wearing the same slicked-back hair and designer suits as the other guys at the firm.
I give his hand a squeeze, half expecting it to disappear in a puff of smoke. But Alex returns the pressure. He’s really here. This is really happening.
“Sadie?” He nudges me.
I realize I’m staring dumbly at him. “Uh. Dinner? Sure. I’ll text you when I get off,” I say, and then flee the apartment.
There’s no way I’m going to make it through a New Year’s brunch at Xavier’s restaurant without caffeine and food, so on the way to work, I stop at Higher Grounds. Zoe has the best coffee in Williamsburg. I should know—when I worked here during my Very Bad Year, it took me three weeks to learn how to make it properly. The scones aren’t great. I could make better ones in my sleep, but I’m so hungry I don’t care.
When I walk in, the familiar scent of ground coffee, vanilla, and something that’s unique to Higher Grounds envelops me, and it’s strangely comforting in my familiar yet foreign new world. Zoe, the owner, stands behind the counter with her long black braids tied up off her face in a colorful wrap.
“Hi, Zoe,” I say as I approach. “I’d kill for a latte and blueberry scone. To go, please. I’m already late for—” I abruptly stop talking. Because she’s staring at me with her eyebrows knit together. And with good reason. I might have spent four months behind that counter, but I don’t work here, and as far as everyone in the place is concerned, I never worked here. Zoe doesn’t know me from Adam, and I’m talking to her like we’re old friends.
“Have we met?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “How do you know my name?”
“Oh, well…” How am I going to talk my way out of this? I give her my most sincere not-a-stalker smile. “I was in here a couple of months ago—” Zoe won’t recall that far back, will she? Except she’s one of those people who has an amazing talent for remembering customers and making them feel welcome. If we’d talked before, she’d know. “And… I overheard someone call you Zoe,” I improvise. “And coincidentally, I had a—um—a cat named Zoe. She died.” Oh great, now in one of my multiple lives, I have a dead cat. I hang my head, looking as sad as possible over my dearly departed pet and banking on the fact that Zoe will take pity on me. “So, that’s how I knew your name, and obviously it stuck with me.”
This is New York City, so I’m certainly not the strangest person to ever come into the café, but I’m willing to bet I’m the strangest person this week. I can almost see Zoe’s brain working out how to handle me in the kindest way possible. “Oh… I’m honored to have had the same name as your… furry friend. Poor Zoe. How are you?”
“Holding up the best I can,” I say. “It’s hard when you lose a pet. They’re like family.” Shut up, Sadie.
“Yeah.” She nods. “I’m so sorry. Remind me of your name again?”
“It’s Sadie,” I tell her, relieved that she seems to be playing along. “Sadie, sort of like”—I make air quotes with my fingers—“‘Sadie, the Cat Lady.’ That’s me.” Oh my God, it’s that nervous babble again. Somebody please put me out of my misery.
Zoe backs away from me, and who could blame her? “Well, let me get you that latte.”
When she turns to use the milk frother, I press my palms to my face and shake my head. Pretending I haven’t lived through this year before is going to be more difficult than I expected. There are so many pitfalls. I’m really going to have to work harder to keep track of what I’m not supposed to know and learn to think before I talk. I should only be using the information I have to fix the things I messed up during my Very Bad Year.
It occurs to me that I should have paid attention to some hot stock tips or lottery numbers the last time around. But, Oh, well. It’s too late now. Besides, if I suddenly started buying tech stock, it would be even less plausible than this dead cat situation I’ve gotten myself into.
I glance to my left and find an older woman glaring at me. Mrs. Kaminski. No way am I acknowledging that we’ve met before. She loves to sit at the counter and bark orders at the staff. Zoe doesn’t seem to mind, and sometimes she even gives her free coffee.
When my latte and scone are ready to go, I make sure to leave a big tip. Zoe earned it for putting up with me. I scarf down my sustenance on the four-block walk to Xavier’s, and when I arrive, I slip in the back-alley door, mercifully undetected.
Kasumi is standing at one of the industrial metal worktables slicing strawberries to go on top of Xavier’s pearled sugar and preserved lemon waffles. “Sadie,” she whispers after I toss my purse in the staff break room and tie an apron around my waist. “Thank God you’re here. Xavier is on a tear over something—who knows what?” She rolls her eyes because we’re all used to Xavier’s tantrums. “Are you okay? You were super weird on the phone this morning.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just—” For a wild second, I consider blurting out that a fortune teller sent me a year back in time to fix my messed-up life. Who wouldn’t believe a story like that? Thankfully, I come to my senses. “It’s just that I was a little hungover this morning.”
“Yeah, me too. Alex’s new friends can really drink, can’t they?”